Air Shafted by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Note: The idea for this little tale was a tragic real-life event that occurred in uptown Charlotte (NC, USA).

John Wizemann, a 29-year-old, somewhat husky, brown-haired, Caucasian photojournalist from a Raleigh (NC) TV station, arrived at the uptown Charlotte Nestin Hotel at 5:05 PM on Wednesday, March 12, 2008. He was sent to the Queen City to get some outside-the-arena photos of the ACC Basketball Tournament, which would start the next day.

Once inside his 18th floor room, John crashed on the fluffy queen-size bed and took a 98-minute nap. He was beat-tired. The usual three-hour drive from Raleigh to Charlotte had taken four, thanks to a truck-car collision south of Lexington on Interstate 85, just before the bridge over the Yadkin River. 

He awoke feeling refreshed. At 7:17 he called up an old buddy from his college days, who just so happened to live in a condo nearby.

“Hello, this is George.”

“George, it’s me, John. I’m in town for the basketball tournament. Want to meet for dinner and a drink?”

“Uh, I’ve already eaten. But, I can meet you for a beer. Where are you staying, John?” 

“I’m at the Nestin.”

“Is that hotel on College near I-277?”

“Yes, that’s the one. I thought you knew this town by now. How long have you lived here?”

George chuckled. “Almost four years. I guess I need to get out more.” He laughed again.

“Hey, I’ll just do room service for dinner. Want to meet me here at nine in the first-floor lobby bar?”

“Sure, John. That sounds great. I’ll put on my velvet lounge-lizard outfit.”

“Oh, please spare me.”

“Ok, I will.”

“Well, I will see you there and then, George.”

“Cool deal, John. Oh, can I bring along my new girlfriend?”

“Why, certainly. Where did you meet this one, George? At the Greyhound bus station?” What did he just say?!

“Oh, go fuck a duck, John.” George laughed.

John then laughed, too. “Ok, I’ll see you two later.” Then he terminated the call. I bet that she’s another Latina caliente. [‘sexy Hispanic lady’ in Spanish] 

The chicken teriyaki dinner that John ordered at 7:24 arrived at 7:42. He devoured it while watching the last segment of the PBS News Hour. This recession may become a depression. It sure looks mighty grim.

He then took a shower and got dressed for the bar. While electric-shaving, he slid his expensive camera under the bed to reduce the chances of it being stolen. Then John walked over to the northeast-facing window. He parted the thick curtains and saw a myriad of rectangular lights: the offices and hotel rooms in the nearby towers. This sure would make a great shot just before sunrise. I wonder if there is any way to get on the roof. Would love to get a shot without any glass panes in the way.

John was down at the bar in the lobby at 8:57. It was moderately populated. At 9:03 George was tapping on his right shoulder.

“Ah, great to see you again, George.”

“Let me guess … you have been down here since 8:30, studying the drink menu,” George, a thin, dark-haired, 28-year-old Amerasian, submitted.

“No, just a few minutes in front of nine. And, thanks for not being as late as you usually were, George. Say, are you going to introduce me to your new girlfriend?”

“John, this is Lisa. Lisa, this is John, an old friend from college.”

“Pleased to meet you, John,” Lisa, a cute, curvaceous, 5’-2”, raven-haired, sensuous Costa Rican in her mid-20s, softly said with a Central American accent.

“Likewise, Lisa,” John said. I wonder how a dork like George met such a hottie. I’ll get the details later. 

George and Lisa then sat on barstools on John’s left (with Lisa betwixt). John then slyly noticed Lisa’s perfectly bronzed legs dangling from her blue miniskirt. I bet she’s wearing his rod out.

“John, what are we drinking tonight?” George then asked.

“A round on me,” John replied. “Just tell the bartender what you want.”

“Why, thanks, my collegiate colleague,” George said. Then he looked at Lisa. “John is now making the big bucks at a Raleigh TV station.”

“Big bucks?!” John exclaimed. “Oh, please! Far from it. I’m just a peon with a camera.” Pee on?

“You really work for a TV station?” Lisa asked, seemingly amazed.

“Yes,” John answered. “But, I’m just a guy taking pictures. I’m near the bottom of the totem pole.”

“It sounds like a cool job, though,” Lisa continued.

“There certainly are worse jobs. I am always looking for unusual vantage points for my pics. I would love to take a photo just before sunrise from the roof of this building.”

“Sorry, but stairway access to the roof is locked,” Lisa then stated in a matter-of-fact manner. Huh?

“How do you know this, Lisa?” John asked.

“I once worked here as a housekeeper,” Lisa replied. “I now work at the Omni.” I bet George met her in that hotel.

“You can always get on the roof of a building if you really want to,” George then said.

“What do you mean by that?” John asked George.

“You can get into the HVAC ductwork,” George said. “It all goes up to the roof. In buildings this tall, the vertical shafts are wide enough for humans. Often there are ladders bolted into the walls. All you have to do is find a good access point. But, remember to pack a flashlight.” How in the world does he know about this?

“George, have you joined the CIA?” John asked.

George then laughed. “No, I took a couple of architecture classes. Don’t you remember when I kept telling everyone that I was going to be the next Frank Gehry?”

“Oh yes, it’s all coming back now, George.” John then looked at Lisa. “He was quite delusional the first two years at the university, but I humored him, Lisa. I wasn’t one to stomp out a dream.”

“Oh, spare me, John,” George retorted. “You were the one who was taking all those mumbo-jumbo, postmodern philosophy courses.”

They all had a laugh. Their conversation sauntered along. Then they had another round. When Lisa finished her cordial concoction, John thought it was time to blow the whistle. I need to wrap this up so that I can get to sleep early and wake up early without a hangover. Must be spry. I’m going up on the roof tomorrow. I’m going to do it. 

“Listen, guys, I’m going to have to call it a night,” John announced. “Just charge it all to room 1818. I’ve got an early morning assignment. Thanks for meeting up with me. It was a pleasure meeting you, Lisa.”

“Ok, John, later,” George said. “I think we might stay here for one more.” George then put his right arm around Lisa and kissed her. “You want one more, baby?” Baby? Never thought that I’d hear George use that word for a girlfriend.

“Sure, honey,” Lisa said, sounding sauced.

“I now bid you lovers adieu,” John said as he dismounted the barstool. He waved to them as he went around the corner. He sure seems up to something. But, what?

John fell asleep in bed as the hyperactive Caucasian, fast talking, gesticulating, local TV weatherman said, “Tonight’s low will be 38 [º Fahrenheit; 3.33º Celsius] and tomorrow’s high will be a picture-perfect 74 [º Fahrenheit; 23.33º Celsius] under fair skies.” Picture-perfect. A perfect picture. Hope mine is tomorrow.

John then had a dream in which he was climbing what seemed to be an endless air shaft. He stopped, held onto a rung, and looked down. There was a small light-gray rectangle far below. Ah, that must be the bottom of this shaft. Sure is a long way down. How high up am I? How much farther to the top? All I see is black. My fingers are tensing up. Oh, no …

Then he awoke at 1:51 AM in a cold sweat. John turned the TV off and drank a cup of water. He was back asleep at 2:04. His next sleep session was seemingly dreamless.

The cock-radio alarm chirped at 6:30 AM. John jumped out of bed, got dressed, and made some coffee. He then peeked through the slit in the curtains. It was still dark outside. Sunrise is not until 7:36. I’m on schedule.

At 6:51 AM John was out the door and in the hallway with his camera slung over his left shoulder. Once in the nearest elevator, which was vacant, he pressed the 24 button. The 25th floor must be private. Is this going to be a problem? Well, just another 11 feet [3.35 meters] to climb.

The elevator stopped at the 24th floor. He exited and looked down the corridor to the left and then to the right. Nothing but a series of closed hotel room doors. Hmmmm … which way to go? Where might an HVAC plenum box be? Would a mechanical room be on this floor?

He turned to his right and quietly walked down the hallway. John noticed an EXIT sign with an arrow. He opened the stairway door. On the landing, inset two inches into the wall, was a three-foot-high (about a meter), 30-inch-wide (76 cm), white door with red words:

RESTRICTED

ACCESS

DO NOT ENTER

John crouched down. He pushed lightly on the metal door. It flexed. He saw some daylight. This metal is pretty thin. Maybe if I pushed it really hard, I could force it open. The locking mechanism seems pretty chintzy. Just push harder, boy. Yeah, that’s what she said. 

And with that thought, John lunged at the access door with a hand on each elbow. The force of his forearms blew the thin-gauge metal door inward. However, John’s momentum was too great for him to stop. His body was launched into the air shaft. Oh, no!

He frantically grabbed at the walls, but could not get a hold off anything substantial. John began to freefall. Ten, twenty, forty, eighty feet (24.4 meters). It’s over. Why did I do that?

He felt for his camera, grabbed it, aimed it upward, and depressed the shutter button one last time. My final departing shot.

At two hundred sixty-four feet (80.5 meters) down, his back slammed into a concrete slab. <thud> John was dead in a millisecond.

Five days later at his Raleigh TV station, John’s damaged digital camera was analyzed. Since the camera was on his stomach at the time of impact, it dodged wholesale destruction. In fact, in just two hours, a tech whiz nicknamed Razz had been able to download the images.

“Hey, Bill, come and look at this last one. You’re not going to believe this.”

“Holy flying cow! Razz, this means that John depressed the shutter button just before he …”

“Exactly.”